Made-Up

A few days after the hammam, Yamine, who is Michael's 30-something brother, who is the only one of his four brothers not to emigrate to Europe, who lives in a narrow tower of a three-story house with his parents, both of whom are bedridden with diabetes, took us--me, Michael, and a guy on my trip from Botswana, Leungo, who goes to Williams--to a sheesha bar. You found this bar (of course?) through an unmarked door right there on Mohammed V, the main avenue, two flights up, to the left (not the right: that's something else, which we weren't allowed to know what this right place was).

If I was writing this as fiction, I'd say that everyone in the hangout--two women!, sort of: the men, that is, were more acknowledging (respectful?) of them than I'd yet seen--turned to look at us when we entered. But really, they didn't. A few dark glances came our way as we settled in, us the three Americans squeezing awkwardly onto a small couch, but that is mostly because I am loud (I am very loud, it turns out; I am working on it). Entering this place alone was already pretty reality altering. I think this is true for the local Moroccan that come here, too. Isn't that the point? It's just--the word isn't amazing--how this is accomplished with so little (tangibly speaking).

The ceilings were low here, too, though slanted--it was a big attic. Anime was on the television sitting on a cardboard box (though no one watched for more than a glance). There must have been thirty people here, all smoking sheesha and having conversation you couldn't hear. There were windows built into the slants in the walls which, opened, let in slants of lights that collided midair and crucified one another. You could see the tails of birds hopping about on the roof through the windows, but not their heads or bodies. Several groups were definitely smoking hash in the corners of the room, which corners you absolutely could not see from the entrance not ten feet from there corners; you knew this not because hash works like weed, i.e. smells (it doesn't), but because they were in the corners and not even murmuring.

I began to talk to Leungo, who is majoring in theater at Williams (knows Eric Phillips well, mom). When the hookah came my way, I took it almost instinctively, it served like a sort of natural supplement to my conversation with Leungo; I have never really experienced smoking hookah, or any activity like it, as such a non-activity, such a natural behavior, I mean. If that makes sense.

It's easy to let mint tea become a given. I don't see Moroccans drinking it all that often, but if you ask, they'll tell you they drink at least two pots a day.

And Steph, before he went to Williams, Leungo got a BA, or something, at LAMDA. Is that what it's called: you know, the famous London Acting School Place. He carries around that Shakespeare you had to carry around with him wherever he travels. We talked shop, though I felt like I was much more excited about how much I knew about what he did and was interested in than he was. He's a little righteously reserved; a little falsely humble. But I am also just saying that.

Speaking quietly is nice, I must say. It makes you think about what words you use.

(Also, Steph: Michael was intent on, and in fact ended up, showing Leungo 2G1C, which he had not seen or heard of. Mom, this is a phenomenally filthy video on YouTube in which two women defecate and vomit on, and in, one another, in short. Now, Leungo is an African who studies in an American university, and Michael refused to let his 30 year-old brother see it, thank God?...but I mean, is this cultural exchange (what a horrible term)? Do we maybe have a responsibility not to pass on the things we most want to pass on? It's not a huge deal; isn't that the problem, though...)

Towards the end of our afternoon at the sheesha bar--which doesn't have a name, of course: I think that's something, I'm not sure what--a guy in a Redskins cap and turquoise sleeveless jersey came up to Leungo, got on one knee, put his hand on Leungo's knee and whispered something to him in French. He told Leungo that he had met Michael and me at Tangiers last August, that he hadn't met Leungo yet and wanted to introduce himself. He was high, of course. Right?

Have I been here before?

---

---